handkerchief here in my pocket — but I do not want
to disturb your work* All the same — if you care to
come to the window. . . .*
So Christophe held up his face to Elise who first
moistened the handkerchief with her saliva, then
carefully cleansed his long-suffering eye.
*I thank you, Elise;* he said very politely, and
stooping he touched her hand with his lips, pre-
cisely as he had seen Goundran do when, one day,
she had bound a cut on his finger.
But fine as it was to distemper the walls, it was
even finer to paint the woodwork — although Goun-
dran was selfish about the front door: cNo; I wish to
do that by myself,5 he insisted. cYou shall do the lower
shutters, but not the door/ And he handed Christophe
a new pot of paint. cDo not waste it, enfantounet, it
costs!' he cautioned.
Oh, the smell and the gloss and the green of the
paint, and the way it slid over the battered old shutters!
Christophe was happier now as he worked than he
had been since the death of Mireio. The dust rose in
clouds, for the port was being swept by a vicious and
very persistent mistral; and the dust made a rash come
out on the paint which, however, did but prolong the
pleasure, since he merely added coat upon coat,
applying them always thicker and thicker. One thing
only gave him cause for regret—Jan was too much
engrossed by his books to take part in this orgy of
house decoration. He had said rather sternly: CI
cannot lose time: I must think of the Cure and
Madame de Berac/ And then he had shown Chris-
tophe a rosary that the Comtesse de Berac had sent
him for Christmas. 'When one has obligations as I
have,5 he had said, 'one cannot lose time dabbing other
people's shutters/ Christophe had certainly felt
impressed, for those beads had looked very grand ^and
expensive. Moreover Jan was quite right about Time:
M 177